


Retreat

by htebazytook



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Bottom!Hannibal, Bottom!Will, Breathplay, Cabin, Canon-Typical Everything, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Season 2, Season/Series 02, Slash, Smut, Top!Will, Winter, top!Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 11:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20741399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: Will’s plans to entrap Hannibal are derailed at a snowy cabin in the woods.  Turns out seduction cuts both ways.  Season 2, sometime after “Naka-choko".





	Retreat

*

“What does intimacy mean to you, Will?”

“Are you asking if I’ve found intimacy with my instincts? Randall Tier could testify that I have.”

“That is not an answer.”

Will sighs. “What it means to everyone, I guess - awareness, and acceptance. Why do you ask?”

“Your fantasies of violence seem focused on the intimacy in the act. Do you suppose this is because you lack it in other aspects of your life?

“Try _every_ aspect of my life.”

Hannibal’s office is unchanged. Even the way Will feels about it is unchanged, which seems impossible. Maybe it’s because Will has been surrounded by the same faces and the same concrete walls for so long but just the sight of Hannibal is a balm to his starving eyes. It’s not just the garish color of his pocket square - it’s the pleasure of watching the gracefulness of his movements, the subdued confidence with which he speaks and carries himself, the way his particular accent and timbre wrap around careful sentences.

Hannibal watches him, now. It feels good to be the object of his attention like this. It will make it easier to reel him in, too, but for now Will allows himself to bask in it. It’s true that he finally does find Hannibal interesting.

“What about in relationships?” Hannibal asks.

“Are you trying to delicately ask whether I’m a virgin? Or maybe you’re just worried your lady love was irrevocably damaged by her brief contact with me.”

Hannibal smirks. “I am merely curious about the way somebody with your capacity for empathy experiences intimacy. Is it a sort of feedback loop? Do your own desires get lost in the push and pull of somebody else’s emotions?”

“I’m in touch with my own desires. That’s practically all I talk about, here.”

“And what, besides the thrill of a righteous killing, do you desire, Will?”

Will isn’t an idiot. He’s aware of Hannibal’s various appetites for him. There’s a reason Hannibal has expended so much time and energy grooming Will. But nothing is ever truly one-sided, and Will has a hold on Hannibal, as well. Physical lust seems a convenient pathway to gaining his trust - his real trust, not the lipservice he’s been doling out so far. It helps that Will’s normally dormant libido perks up at the thought. Maybe it’s the danger of it that begets arousal? Will holds Hannibal’s gaze. “I think you have some idea.”

“I do.”

Will fights the urge to fidget, to fold his arms protectively across his chest. He forces himself to breathe. “Lately I’ve been wondering if my preoccupation with pulling the trigger is born out of a desire for control. I’ve felt decidedly out of control since my release from the hospital.”

“In what way?”

“Just . . .” Will sighs, because this is a less calculated feeling to express to him, and it leaves him feeling exposed. “My house, my dogs, even just walking around outside with so much space above me - it feels like déjà vu, or like a dream. I feel like an observer. More than usual, I mean.”

Hannibal clasps his hands together in his lap. “It’s not uncommon for prisoners to have trouble adjusting to life on the outside. Or for soldiers to adjust to civilian life, again.”

“I’m not a soldier.”

“Aren’t you? You have certainly soldiered through much at the behest of Uncle Jack.”

Will shrugs. “It’s a living.”

“Not much of one, for you. Not a positive one.”

“And your plans for me are healthier?”

Hannibal skirts right around that. “There is an artists’ retreat in the Blue Ridge Mountains I think you would enjoy. It can be therapeutic to get away from it all when one’s life becomes overwhelming.”

“Sounds nice, but I’m not an artist.”

“On the contrary, you always have been. You have creative gifts that few can rival.”

Will hates to admit that an isolated woodland retreat doesn’t sound half bad. If only to get away from the steady flow of cases that seems to have resumed the second he’d stepped foot back into the real world. “How do _you_ know about this place? Do you . . . . retreat there to ruminate on future meal plans?”

“You could say that.”

* 

Hannibal’s hair is slicked back today, which seems superfluous considering their destination. Unless there’s a gallery opening in the next holler over that Will doesn’t know about. It’s been a five hour drive, give or take, and Hannibal has brought two stainless steel thermoses of coffee and the most gourmet-tasting dried fruit Will has ever eaten to sustain them. Will’s insistence on stopping to stretch his legs and use a rest stop bathroom is met with silent disdain. In fact the entire journey has been primarily silent, even companionably silent despite how hot Will’s hatred for Hannibal has burned in recent months. It has been worryingly easy to slip back into the rhythm of their relationship, like coming home after college and reverting immediately to old patterns. Any animosity toward backwoods hometowns or backstabbing high school friends just melts away to be replaced by the comfort of familiarity.

It’s mainly dull dormant grasses that flank the highways, though the monotony is broken by occasional battalions of barren maples. Snow lingers in the gravel at the side of the road and outlines the shadows of the trees. It’s a frigid day - too cold for snow, now, and the roads are powdered with salt.

Hannibal pulls off the highway and drives them through a charming little town before heading for the mountains that loom beyond it. The road climbs upward steadily, brittle yellow brush giving way to lush evergreens and, increasingly, to snow. The snowfall had been heavier up here, and some of it is sent swirling over vantablack tarmac by the wind. Will sees a pair of squirrels, the smoke of a distant cabin, and a rustic wooden sign that proclaims ‘Tiger Swallowtail Retreat’.

“The retreat is far less populated during the winter months,” Hannibal says. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they’d got off the highway. They must be close. “Apparently most artists prefer the greenery.”

“I don’t mind winter. Something about the lack of stimuli makes everything else more intense.”

Twenty minutes later finds them climbing a winding road that is technically gravel but is mostly snow. The trees thin out as they reach the top of the ridge and an expansive log cabin rushes into view. It’s shades of Frank Lloyd Wright and is suspended over the cusp of a cliff with timber pilings like a jetty into the sea. A foot or more of snow has settled plumply on the deck railing. Evergreens bow to them with ice-thickened branches as Hannibal pulls into the driveway.

“This place is more secluded than my house,” Will says as they navigate through a snowed-over garden to the front door. “The last gas station must’ve been over an hour ago.”

“Very secluded,” Hannibal agrees. “Which will be useful should you want to try killing me again.” He holds the door open for Will.

“Such chivalry. It almost makes me forget you tried to kill _me_ shortly thereafter.”

“Well, you were my guest. It would’ve been rude of me to go first . . . "

“And here?”

“Neutral ground.”

Will unshoulders his backpack and lets it fall by the front door. The living room marries rustic and upscale sensibilities effortlessly with Mid-Century white couches and gorgeous wood floors and a hundred other details that Will doesn’t have time to catalogue. Hannibal takes his shoes off and places them next to the front door, then walks past him to the kitchen.

The kitchen is bright and gray with huge single pane windows overlooking the cliff. Outside, meager overcast daylight gleams over the crisp top layer of snow. Hannibal drops his leather overnight bag on the kitchen island and hangs his coat precisely on the rack by the door. He’s either familiar with his particular cabin or is doing a good job of faking it. Hannibal crosses to the windows to survey the view and Will is once again struck by the sheer depth of the hole this man had left when Will had been hauled off to the asylum. The hole he’d hollowed out for himself in Will’s brain with utter disregard for ethics or the simple courtesy implied by their supposed friendship. Being away from him may have broken the spell, but it hadn’t loosened Hannibal’s hold on him. Instead, whatever tendrils Hannibal had left inside Will’s psyche have taken root and begun to grow.

Will shrugs his own coat off to plop unceremoniously on the floor and joins him. When Hannibal opens his mouth to speak Will crowds in front of him to block the view, savoring Hannibal’s fleeting confusion before he takes hold of his lapels and kisses him. 

It’s dry and Hannibal’s skin is still chilled by mountain air but his breath is warm and his mouth responsive. Hannibal’s hands come up to clasp Will’s forearms, stroking idly at the sensitive skin of his wrist with one icy fingertip. 

Will steps back.

It’s so bright and monochromatic in the kitchen that Will can clearly see the flush skimming Hannibal’s cheekbones. It could just be from the cold but his pupils are dilated substantially for somebody who is facing sunlight. “What was your intention, there?”

“I just figured we should get this out of the way,” Will says. “Any objections?”

“Cutting to the chase?” Hannibal asks, voice rivetingly low in pitch.

“Let’s just say I’m getting sick of games.”

Hannibal licks his lips. “So what exactly do you envision happening now, Will? What is it that you want from me?”

“The same things you want from me.”

“That’s an awfully broad statement,” Hannibal says. “And I’m not certain that it’s entirely true.”

“Try me.” 

Will lets himself be pressed into the cold window. Hannibal doesn’t kiss him at first, just stands very close with his hands on Will’s shoulders. When Will leans forward Hannibal only stills him. One of Hannibal’s arms angles up to press against his throat while his free hand unbuttons Will’s flannel with dexterity. When it falls to the floor and Will’s bared back makes contact with the windowpane he can’t help shivering.

“What I want is to see you exposed,” Hannibal says. The bones of his forearm push ever so gently into Will’s Adam’s apple.

“You enjoy taking advantage of me.”

“Yes.”

Will reaches for him again but Hannibal catches his wrists and holds them painfully tight. 

“I’ve often considered what I would do to you in a situation like this,” Hannibal says, eyes flicking over Will like he’s categorizing every inch of him. “Now that the moment has arrived, however, I am somewhat paralyzed by indecision.”

“I’m not.” Will twists out of his grip and pulls Hannibal in by his stupid tie for a kiss. 

Hannibal _mm_’s approvingly into it. His hands meander around to the small of Will’s back to rest there possessively. Hot breath between kisses while frigidity seeps into Will’s back from behind. It’s blurrily open-mouthed and Hannibal’s tongue only ventures forward sparingly, tantalizing. Hannibal pressing his body and the firm proof of his arousal into him while fingernails stab into Will’s hips.

Will finds Hannibal’s tie again, working it loose and fumbling with Hannibal’s buttons so much that Hannibal has to help him. Their hands tangle in the process and all Will can think about is how desperately he wants to take him apart. Got to deconstruct him the way Hannibal does to Will constantly.

They’re both shirtless now. The brush of hardened nipples and chest hair makes Will shiver. He gouges his fingers into Hannibal’s hair, thwarted by product but driving through it. When Will leans back to inspect his work Hannibal looks wrecked - mouth wet and meticulous coiffure resculpted into disarray.

“Let me have you,” Hannibal says.

Will can’t reply, feeling like a snake who’s been hopelessly charmed for far too long. He reaches for Hannibal’s belt and feels his own cock harden the hitch in Hannibal’s breath as Will slips it off and works his fly open. Hannibal’s erection springs forward and Will grasps it through a layer of soft gray material. Hannibal’s hand closes over Will’s and he grinds into it, eyes closed and lost to sensation for a moment before he seems to lose all patience and squirms away.

“Take your clothes off,” Hannibal says.

His tone sends heat to pool between Will’s legs. He manages a breathless laugh. “Are you asking me to strip?”

Hannibal lunges forward to crush their mouths together again. Again, and again, like he’s magnetized to him. Will flings his shoes across the room and hurries to get his jeans and boxers out of the way.

Hannibal retrieves a glass bottle of cooking oil and Will is more stunned by the idea that Hannibal would waste it in such a tawdry pursuit than he has been by anything so far.

“Have you done this?”

Will shakes his head.

Hannibal’s lips quirk up. “Good.” He takes Will by the shoulders and walks him toward the cushioned white stools at the kitchen island. “Up,” he tells Will, but doesn’t wait for Will to comply before lifting him up onto the stool himself.

It’s precariously swively, but Hannibal cages Will in. He angles Will’s hips forward, pours some of the oil messily onto his fingers and trails them down Will’s cock. He presses firmly and with dizzying accuracy against Will’s prostate from outside before forcing two fingers inside of him. Something about the angle he’s maneuvered Will into discourages his body from protesting too much against the intrusion. Any pain or pleasure floats into the background while a sensation of overwhelming fullness takes over.

Hannibal’s mouth along Will’s jaw, biting at the join of neck and shoulder and soothing it with kisses. He’s scissoring his fingers to stretch Will wider for him, more and more until Will’s body doesn’t so much adjust as become accustomed to the ache. Hannibal’s cock is leaking against his leg, now. 

Hannibal replaces his fingers with his cock with the same balletic ease he wields in the kitchen - and Will wonders deliriously is maybe that’s because they’re _in_ a kitchen. Hannibal pushes into him very gradually, and Will doesn’t know how he can maintain such composure. After he’s fully inside he pulls out just as slowly, then in again. More. Will feels dazed with the addictive echoes of pleasure that begin chase the pain.

It seems obvious to label the feeling as good, but it’s not just that. It’s a ballooning, mindless sensation that is so sharp the word ‘good’ is startled out of him because he can’t think enough to be more descriptive. He is reduced to a conduit of shimmering spikes of pleasure with every thrust.

As Hannibal’s thrusts start to speed his hair jostles in tandem, silverly in the blaring light that illuminates him from behind. Will’s legs are starting to shake with the effort of holding himself in this position, and when Hannibal notices he gets his arms under Will’s knees to lift him up more and lean Will back against the counter. The granite digs into Will’s back sharply but Will soon forgets about that when Hannibal plunges into him again. Something about this new angle is blindingly good and Will’s head lolls back the next time Hannibal hits his prostate. Terrifyingly invasive and entirely overwhelming.

A wild sound passes Hannibal’s lips and he grabs Will by the hair to hold his head up. “Look at me, Will,” he says, so Will does, but it’s hard for him to keep his eyes open when he’s being fucked like this. It’s perfect and relentless and the sight and feeling of Hannibal’s strength is . . .

“Don’tstop. Please don’t.” 

“Bring yourself off, for me.”

Will pulls at his straining cock roughly, close already and the uncomplicated pleasure of that on top of everything else persuades his eyes to drift closed again.

The grip in Will’s hair tightens painfully and he groans and opens his eyes. He finds Hannibal watching him like a predator stalking its prey and supposes that’s as apt as anything. Will jerks himself harder, using the momentum of Hannibal’s thrusts to his advantage, and soon the kitchen blurs and he’s coming between them.

Hannibal follows him quickly, pulsing inside him and murmuring nonsense into Will’s shoulder.

Will’s legs are starting to shake with effort so he more or less collapses back into a normal sitting position, pushing Hannibal out and away in the process. Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered, though. He steps back and leans over the counter to catch his breath. Will stares out the window into the bleakly beautiful sky and nobody moves for long minutes.

Movement in the corner of Will’s eye disturbs his reverie - Hannibal is getting redressed. The glance he spares for Will is blank on his way back into the living room.

Will sighs and stands and stretches. “Where’re you going?” he calls after him.

“To unpack.” Hannibal’s reply echoes in the big room before it’s cut off by the sound of the front door opening.

Will finds a half bath off the kitchen and becomes transfixed by its stained glass window while he cleans up. When was the last time he’d had sex? Hell, when was the last time he’d had an orgasm, at all? Somehow the idea of Chilton analyzing his masturbatory routine hadn’t really gotten Will in the mood. 

Will goes back into the kitchen. He stares at the golden oil centerpiece of the grayscale room until a shiver surprises him. It’s only now as his sweat starts to cool that he notices how chilly the cabin is. He struggles back into his clothes with uncoordinated hands and goes looking for a thermostat.

‘Living room’ isn’t the right word for the cavernous, two story space that dominates the house. There’s a massive stone fireplace that climbs all the way to the ceiling and more gray-white light streams in through the windows flanking it. If there’s a thermostat, it’s probably been cleverly incorporated into the decor somehow. Will hoists his backpack and heads up a curved staircase to the upstairs landing. He’s greeted by a twelve point buck whose head has been mounted to the wall. His glass eyes look down on Will almost reproachfully, like he’s reminding Will to remember who his enemy is.

There are three bedrooms. One of them has bunk beds and a toy train track wrapped around it near the ceiling, the master is white and blue with exposed beams and an elaborate chandelier, and the final bedroom is a sanctuary of wood and stone - just right.

He hears the front door open and close again and makes his way back downstairs. Hannibal is in the kitchen putting groceries away, not a hair is out of place and oil is gone, but somehow that only underscores what had happened between them here. “I’m going to build a fire,” Will says.

“A fine idea,” Hannibal replies, not pausing to look at him. “Dinner should be ready in about an hour.”

“Oh, okay.” Will is suddenly reminded of how hungry he is. “Do you want a sous-chef?”

Hannibal does look at him then, face glowing from being outside and from the smile that creeps up on him. “No, thank you. Perhaps tomorrow.”

The wood stacked next to the fireplace is nicely dry, but the kindling isn’t the best. Will does manage to get a fire to catch eventually, though. Something is frying in the kitchen and he can hear Hannibal chopping. 

Will goes back upstairs to claim the cozier bedroom with the wood and stone, pulling clothes and toiletries out of his backpack and setting them pointlessly in a row on the dresser. He spends five minutes admiring the thickly forested view from his window, then paces, then flops onto his back on the cheerful red-quilted bed and studies the knots in the wood-planked ceiling. His recent orgasm is beginning to catch up with him and he is close to dozing when he hears the refrigerator thump shut and the beeps of a timer being set. 

He sits up in the bed, a little dizzy, and rummages through his clothes for the sweatpants he’d brought for sleeping in. He’s not sure how Hannibal will feel about Will in anything less than full black tie for dinner, but he’s too cold and sleepy to care much about that. He goes back downstairs and curls up in a plush recliner to wait.

Hannibal is wearing an apron when he appears in the archway to summon Will to dinner. Will would laugh if Hannibal didn’t retain the infuriating ability to pull off almost anything, no matter how ridiculous it would be on someone else. As it is Hannibal has a loosened tie and rolled up sleeves in addition to the apron which tips the scales from ridiculous to disarmingly sexy so fast that Will is worried. The disapproving deer’s head upstairs springs to mind.

They eat on the same kitchen stools they’d fucked on, a fact that buzzes unhelpfully in the back of Will’s mind during the entire meal. The food is something unpronounceably Polish which as far as Will can tell just boils down to potato dumplings in a carrot broth with other odds and ends thrown in. It’s hot and savory and sits happily in Will’s stomach. Outside, the frozen landscape is dimming. It’s too cloudy to see the sunset, but the deepening blueness of the shadows between the trees is equally beautiful.

Hannibal insists on cleaning up - more out of a desire for control than etiquette, Will thinks. Will leaves the aromatic kitchen and finds a seat on the living room sofa that’s closest to the fireplace to watch flames lick hypnotically at the wood.

Hannibal brings out mugs of hot chocolate that taste like melted bars of Godiva with notes of subtle spiciness. Will is too conscious of the soft white leather of the sofa to drink it there - he sits on the floor and leans back against it instead. The windows are sheets of black and the fire casts the room in hues of liquid gold.

Hannibal uncovers a cleverly hidden sound system and puts on something with frenetic piano before sitting on the sofa near Will. Will has been locked up for so long that the shock of other humans being so close to him unexpectedly is still borderline overstimulating. It’s a harsh wave of panic followed by the warmth of feigned emotional connection. Because that’s all it is, isn’t it? Will’s empathy for murderers obviously extends to Hannibal, a murderer, and tricks Will’s brain into believing he genuinely likes Hannibal. It’s not because Hannibal has never shown an iota of disdain for the way Will’s brain works. And it’s not because Will does finally find him interesting.

The music is jumpy and half atonal but its repetitions are weirdly soothing. Soon a Psycho-style violin rip interrupts the piano.

“What is this?” Will asks.

“Réveil des oiseaux.”

“ . . . ‘Clock of the something?’ ”

“ ‘Wake up, birds.’ Messiaen was fond of birdsong.”

“Is this your way of subliminally awakening me?” Will asks. “To fulfill my _potential_?”

“This above all: to thine own self be true,” Hannibal says. “Messiaen was forced to examine himself quite intimately while a prisoner of war. He continued to compose and evolve his music during his incarceration.”

“So . . . you’re playing this because I just got out of the slammer?”

“Why do you assume that everything I do has an ulterior motive, Will?”

“Why?” Will scoffs. “I can’t imagine.”

“Birdsong is inherently therapeutic. Even though this piece has atonality, we as humans are primed to recognize patterns found in nature subconsciously. And so the rhythms Messiaen uses to evoke birdsong provide us with solace.”

“Not everything has to be a lecture, you know.” Will cranes his neck to look at him upside down. “You made me a mixtape, you old romantic.”

Hannibal retreats into his mug. Will turns back to the fire, not really expecting Hannibal to respond. He’s surprised by the fingers that work themselves gently into his hair, comfortingly heavy and warm.

Hannibal asks him, “Have your regrets about resisting the desire to kill Clark Ingram abated, since last we spoke of them?” 

“No. A little. I dunno.” Will can’t repress a sigh. “That feels nice.”

Hannibal continues to stroke Will’s head like he’s a cat. Will is okay with being a cat, for now. He’s sleepy and full and content - machinations in the name of justice can wait ‘til tomorrow. 

* 

Birdsong wakes Will up. That doesn’t seem right. He stretches under the covers before getting out of bed and crossing to the window. A lone female cardinal perches daintily on a hemlock branch that brushes against the cabin. She doesn’t seem to notice him, hopping along the branch and shaking the snow out of it and chirping to the heavens. Will is sore in places he is very unused to and can’t help feeling a little smug about that.

He smells bacon. Bacon and some spice that he can’t quite put his finger on. His stomach rumbles and he shrugs on his flannel before going downstairs.

Hannibal shouldn’t look so devastating in casual wear. He’s wearing joggers made of something soft and black and a greenish sweater that exposes neck and clavicle in a way that feels scandalous on him. Fucking on a kitchen stool hadn’t made Will blush, but this feels like spying on him in the shower.

They eat bacon, eggs, and brioche toast with an extra creamy butter. It’s maybe the simplest dish Will has ever been presented with by Hannibal, but the flavors and textures are still ridiculously elevated. At least Hannibal isn’t shoving ears down his throat, although God only knows what that bacon is made of. Hot resentment rears up in Will’s chest as he thinks about it - it’s the betrayal that he can’t seem to get past, somewhere deep down. Accept that your confidant and semi-therapist is a cannibalistic serial killer? No problem. Being manipulated like a marionette by him when Will had been vulnerable? That stung. And if Will is being honest with himself, that’s his primary motivation in cooperating with Jack.

They drink a mellow grassy green tea after breakfast. The heat and smell of it calms Will despite himself. It’s hard to maintain the proper level of rage when the object of said rage is the least stressful person on earth for Will to interact with. The view of the bluff outside certainly helps too - the sky this morning is a gradient of blue to gray capped by high wispy cold clouds, and the trees below it stand sentinel in shades of black.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Will asks. “Not hypnosis, I hope. You could’ve done that anywhere.”

Hannibal tilts his head very slightly. “There are some who would deem my therapies unorthodox. However so far the results have been worthwhile. But in answer to your question: there is nothing planned. I’ve merely provided you with a space in which to breathe the air and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”

“Have we retreated into the woods to live deliberately?”

“Yes.”

“You _do know_ that I actually spent quite a lot of time isolated from the world, recently?”

“True, but I suspect the scenery there was less appealing.”

He isn’t wrong. The sun must be climbing higher into the sky behind the cabin now - the shadows of the trees shift and the snow on the ground begins to sparkle. Will’s house may be isolated, but the land around it is flat and barren. The mountains and the trees here crowd in comfortingly.

“Did you sleep well, Will?” When Will glances over Hannibal’s gaze is already fixed on him. 

“Yeah. It was a down comforter, but I suppose you already knew that,” Will says, sipping from his teacup. “But nothing’s ever as comfortable as your own bed.”

“Not ever?”

“No,” Will answers quickly. He’s annoyed by the pretense of small talk no matter who it comes from.

“And the nightmares? Have they returned?”

Will shakes his head before even considering the truth. He wants to be able to keep _something_ from him. The note of falsehood in Hannibal’s concern grates on him, now. Because he hadn’t even known it was there, before? Or maybe the concern is genuine, and always has been? The uncertainty of that is worse than either truth.

Will has been sipping his tea too aggressively and is nearing the bottom of the cup. He begins taking tinier sips to make it last, enjoying the feel of it in his hands and the distraction of taste.

Hannibal’s gaze is even and reptilian as ever and Will hates him for a minute. But his body relaxes. Hannibal says nothing more, taking his teacup to the sink and beginning to wash the dishes. Meticulous and unbothered.

Will’s emotions are such a conflicting jumble that he wonders briefly if maybe Hannibal has drugged him. Will looks to him again: Hannibal’s head is down and his shoulders are moving disjointedly. With his sleeves pushed up Will can see the tendons in Hannibal’s forearms flex. Will doesn’t know what he wants, but he does know what he’s doing.

Will sidles up to Hannibal and takes over drying the dishes wordlessly. It’s easy to make casual contact with Hannibal’s hands, and Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to lean closer to him after that. Leaning into him. The clatter of a still-greasy dish as Hannibal shifts behind Will and brushes warm lips against the nape of Will’s neck. Will relishes the electric chill up his spine and lets himself be pressed into the counter. Then he opens his eyes and wrenches his body around to face Hannibal.

Hannibal is silhouetted by the bright morning light streaming down on them and it’s like kissing a shadow. A delicious, green tea flavored shadow. Will forgets to breathe for a minute, then remembers to inhale through his nose and it’s all smoky bacon and that persistent woodsmokey scent that follows Hannibal around.

Hannibal emits something suspiciously like a moan into Will’s mouth. He takes gentle hold of Will’s face and deepens the kiss deftly, dizzyingly. Blood rushes to Will’s groin and he hopes they’ll just spend the rest of the weekend doing this so Will won’t have to think about the rest of it.

Hannibal separates them by a hair’s breadth and says, “I’m sure you are aware of the well documented phenomenon of transference between patient and therapist.”

Will has to laugh. “If this is transference then it’s only happening by your own design.”

Hannibal’s eyes are closed. He presses his forehead to Will’s like he can’t help it and the undercurrent of raw want there sends Will’s heart into his throat. “That would be highly unethical.”

Will affects being scandalized: “Your license could be revoked for something like that.”

Hannibal has moved on to nudge his nose along Will’s jaw, trailing his mouth lightly over his neck. “Perhaps,” he breathes across the dampened skin, “but how would you ever prove anything?”

The potential for double entendre there makes Will’s heart beat faster out of more than lust. What would Hannibal do if he discovered Will’s plans to ensnare him? Part of Will is curious as hell to find out.

Hannibal leans further into Will until he’s got him backed into the counter. His kisses meander back to Will’s mouth and Will is grateful for the reprieve from thinking. Hands slide down Will’s sides, tugging at fabric and making him shiver. Hannibal pulls Will’s hips flush to his and grinds unsubtly against him and he has to close his eyes, overwhelmed with the idea that Hannibal should want him quite this much.

“You started this,” Hannibal accuses. “How am I supposed to resist it now that you’ve whetted my appetite?”

“Hedonism isn’t sustainable, you know,” Will says, though it comes out shakier than he would’ve liked.

“Ah, my mistake. Denial and self-loathing are far healthier personal philosophies.” He catches Will’s wrist and strokes the underside delicately, the sensation of which skitters up Will’s spine. Then he disappears, fallen to his knees before Will and cupping the bulge in his sweatpants. 

“How often have you imagined this?” Hannibal asks him. He seems in no hurry to get Will’s clothes off, fingers curling under the waistband of his sweatpants and nails pricking at the skin below his hipbones.

“This _specifically_? Not that I can recall.”

“Hm.” Hannibal seems to take that as a challenge and pushes Will’s pants down to grasp his hardening cock. A warm exhale ghosts over sensitive flesh before Hannibal laps a bead of precome delicately from the head. “I think of this practically every time we are alone together. I think of how much simpler it would be to communicate in this way. And every time I wonder, will today be the day? Would I dare, this time? Or would you?”

“Or are you planning to talk me to orgasm?”

Hannibal smirks. “Not today.” He shoves Will a little harder into the counter, admonishing. Then he takes Will so deep Will can feel the ridge of his throat before pulling swiftly back, grasping the slickened skin with his hand and stroking lightly up and down. 

“There was one rather persistent fantasy, while you were incarcerated,” Hannibal continues. The movement of his lips grazes Will’s shaft and Hannibal licks at it intermittently between words. “Those cages at the Baltimore State Hospital were amusingly medieval, but the idea of touching you through their bars held considerable appeal. Of sucking you through them, orderlies and CCTV be damned . . . “

“I dunno,” Will says, surprised at the gruffness of his voice. “Voyeurism can be arousing. So I’m told.”

“Perhaps we might experiment with that, later on.” His words are muffled against Will’s cock.

“Exposure therapy, quite literally.”

Hannibal’s chuckle resonates deliciously through Will’s groin. His grip on Will tightens and he mouths away to Will’s hip, nuzzles against his upper thigh and turns his head up to look at Will. “What is it that you want?”

God, he is so tempting, and _so_ calculated. Will hates his reaction to both. “I want you to stop fucking around.”

It’s abundantly clear that Hannibal enjoys Will’s frustration. “And where is the fun in that?”

Will pushes Hannibal’s hair off his forehead and twists it a little. Hannibal’s lips part as if on cue and Will brushes his cock against them before guiding it into the velvet heat of his mouth. Hannibal closes his eyes showily, savoring, letting Will fuck his mouth and managing to suck him too. It’s hard to concentrate on thrusting when Hannibal is inflicting so much sensation on him, when the gray light in the gray kitchen seems to swell and swell. 

Hannibal forces Will’s hips against the counter, using his body weight to pin Will there as he continues to torture him. Hannibal’s tongue teasing up the underside of Will’s cock, fingertips tracing his balls and inner thighs, the _light_ in his eyes when he takes Will’s shaft in again. 

Will can’t breathe. “I’m gonna - ”

But Hannibal only growls, forcing Will’s cock deeper until Will can’t help coming down his throat.

Will’s eyes close and he stares into the redness of the back of his eyelids while pleasure rips through him, wave after wave. A shadow falls across the red glow when Hannibal stands back up. Paper towels are placed into Will’s nerveless hand and Will wipes himself off. When he opens his eyes Hannibal is leaning against the opposite counter, panting and watching him. Hannibal’s mouth and chin are lewdly wet and an erection tents his pants.

Will reaches out to him, thinks better of it. “I’m not the most coordinated right now,” he says. “But I’d still like to see you get yourself off.”

Hannibal’s eyes close for a minute, like he too is capable of being overwhelmed by something. He pushes his pants down enough to fists his cock harshly. It looks borderline painful, but the involuntary grunts Hannibal emits say otherwise. He looks so exquisitely vulnerable. When he comes it’s silent and deftly caught in his palm, for the most part. He doesn’t look at Will, after - just crosses to wash his hands in the sink.

Will wants to kiss him, but the impulse feels both too casual and too affectionate an exchange for them.

Hannibal breaks the spell to wash his hands again and a joke about OCD is on the tip of Will’s tongue but his brain won’t cooperate. Hannibal says he’ll finish the dishes and Will wanders bonelessly to the stairs, up them, walks into Hannibal’s room by accident first before finally locating the bathroom.

Will’s shower is luxuriously mindless. When he finally forces himself to get out the icy trees outside the window seem to confront him. More disapproval. Will is so warm and relaxed that no amount of cold weather seems intimidating and he decides to go for a walk.

When Will descends the stairs again he finds Hannibal seated on the overstuffed chair closest to the fireplace. Precise, cheerful music is emanating from the sound system. Will perches on the arm of the couch. “What is this? It sounds familiar.”’

“The Goldberg Variations,” Hannibal replies.

“It’s a far cry from the Messiaen.”

“On the surface, maybe,” Hannibal says. “But not if you know what to listen for.”

“I see. Did you test me for STD’s before we had unprotected intercourse or do you just like living on the edge?”

Hannibal shrugs, unfazed, and Will misses the more pliable sexual version of him. “They were already running a full battery of tests on you at the hospital, which I of course was privy to.”

“Yeah, HIPAA is so last season.” Will crosses the room to put on his boots. “I think the last time I had sex must’ve been at a Halloween party when I was a cop. And that was only because I got drunk on the punch. I’m pretty sure I only went into the crib with her because the music and the people were too loud.”

Hannibal doesn’t have anything to say to that. He recrosses his legs out of the corner of Will’s eye while Will finishes tying his boots up.

“On the other hand,” Will says, “I imagine you’re accustomed to screening your dinner guests for anything unsavory, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Hannibal’s eyes evade before his words follow suit: “Did you know, Will, that the bite of a lone star tick can induce an unusual allergic reaction in humans? Alpha-gal. The so-called meat allergy. People who have enjoyed consuming meat their entire lives might suddenly experience anaphylaxis after eating it.”

“So?”

“If you’ve been bitten by the wrong kind of tick, no amount of careful food preparation will forestall a dangerous reaction.”

“I suppose I should be comforted by your fastidiousness,” Will says. “For my own sake.”

Hannibal seems amused by this. “Taking the air, Will?”

Will gestures to his coat, scarf, etc.

“I would advise you to follow the orange path markers on the trees. And to take your phone.”

“I _have_ done this before.”

Hannibal’s expression is almost fond. Almost. “See you later, then.”

The cold outside air is refreshing after the cozy warmth of the cabin. Will feels like he can breathe now. He follows the path heading north because it seems the flattest, trudging through snow and quickly soaking his pants through. Walking becomes easier the deeper into the woods he goes because the snowfall is shallower. It’s so quiet that he can hear the pitch of the silence.

Finches flit from tree to tree and the occasional squirrel bounds across Will’s path, but those are the only signs of life he sees for the first hour. By the second hour Will’s face is getting numb. He doesn’t mind, though - it’s comforting, not to have to feel something.

When he finally sees the whitetail doe in the clearing it feels inevitable. She lifts her head and looks to him in glorious banality, not at all like Will’s fevered dreams of stags and shadow people. Big black eyes of unbiased wisdom. He thinks he must’ve been waiting for her permission before turning back and returning to the dragon’s den.

The journey back to the house seems to take longer, and none of it even looks familiar - Will’s footprints are the only thing to assure him he’s heading the right way. Sunlight leaks through the clouds to sparkle the crust of snow on the ground.

Will sees the smoke first, streaming gently from the chimney. And then the roof of the cabin peeking over the pines. The cabin looms closer but feels less threatening than it looks - an impeccable, lavish bastion of civilization dominating the wilds around it.

Will peers into the windows as he approaches for a clue to Hannibal’s whereabouts but sees nothing. When he walks in the front door Hannibal is reading in a chair by the fireplace. He marks his place and smiles up at Will.

“Are you hungry, Will?”

Will shrugs and unspools his scarf. “A little. Yeah. Don’t worry about rushing to make lunch or anything.”

“Not at all. I have something prepared in the kitchen whenever you are ready.”

Talking about food makes Will keenly aware of just how hungry he actually is He rushes upstairs to get out of his damp clothes and change into sweats. They eat in the kitchen, a fancy breed of deli sandwich with sopressata and a freshly made tapenade. Hannibal doesn’t talk, not even to explain the meal, and the silence is compainable. Will can feel his leg muscles twitching from all the walking. He wiggles his toes in fresh dry socks and fills his belly and is glad to avoid verbal battle with Hannibal, for the moment.

The rest of the day is spent reading books and listening to music. From time to time Hannibal gets up to look outside at a passing creature or monitor the impending weather. As the day wanes, Will starts lugging firewood into the fireplace and Hannibal locates a match to spark the kindling.

“It’s dinner time, I think,” Hannibal says, face half in shadow and half gilded with the firelight.

“Yeah, I could eat. Do you want any help?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Not yet.”

So Will goes upstairs while Hannibal disappears into his kitchen lair. Will unplugs his phone from the charger expecting a barrage of texts from Jack, but there are only two relatively mundane ones. Something about moving around has reminded Will that his body is still worn out from his walk, so he sets an alarm and sets his glasses on the nightstand to take a nap.

The smell of smoke wakes him up long before his alarm does. Not ‘the house is on fire’ smoke - more like the enticing aroma of charred Fourth of July burgers. Will doesn’t even bother combing out his bedhead before grabbing his glasses and heading for the kitchen.

He finds Hannibal busy over the stove. The strings of his apron cut into his shirt and it bunches up above it a bit, threatening to reveal a strip of skin if Hannibal’s shoulders move just right.

“It smells like barbeque in here,” Will says.

Hannibal doesn’t turn around.

“That was a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

Will laughs and walks over to him. Something is steaming in a tall pot and Hannibal has ingredients lined up neatly on the counter. The oven vent is on and humming noisily, but it does little to dispel the aroma of smokey meat.

Will leans against an empty counter and asks him, “What are we having? Or do you like to save the speech for serving?”

Hannibal’s mouth curls up. “Not at all. It is roasted duck glazed with Amarena cherry. The side dishes are a ginger-infused sweet potato mousse and braised kale.”

“Sounds good. What’s so special about Amarena cherries?”

“They are Italian, and somewhat bitter.”

Will indicates the little bowl of red stuff on the counter. “Can I help now?”

“Certainly, you may whisk the - “

Will picks up the whisk and tastes the glaze. “Seems pretty sweet to me.”

Hannibal’s jaw tightens. “I have no objection to you sampling the food, Will - it is the hallmark of a good chef. But you could have asked, first.”

“But, I didn’t,” Will says, and licks up more of the cherry juice.

Hannibal watches him. “You’ll make a mess.”

Will lets a droplet trickle down his chin. “Have you tried it yet, Hannibal? Maybe there’s too much sugar or something . . . ”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow very slightly. He leans closer, smelling delicious, and laps up the errant drop of glaze with an audible scrape against Will’s stubble. Then he nudges Will’s chin up and follows the path of the liquid down his neck. When Hannibal steps back his lips look bloodstained. “You’re right, Will. A bit too sweet for the duck.”

Will forces his breathing to regulate, wonders if Hannibal can hear his heart hammering. “How much longer on the mashed potatoes?”

“You mean the mousse?” Hannibal asks throatily.

Will scoffs, a little too weak to be effective. How had he lost the upper hand so quickly?

Hannibal is amused by it. He chuckles and returns to cooking.

After dinner is eaten and dishes are done Will wants to check out the hot tub on the deck. Hannibal seems unenthused but agrees, and even produces a pair of swimming trunks for Will that fit better than Will thought swimsuits even could.

The deck out back is small and so ensconced by trees that the sky is barely visible. Porch light draws out red from the woodgrain and warms Hannibal’s skin to a midsummer tan. The hot tub itself glows greenishly with distorted little lights beneath the water. After five minutes soaking in it Will has forgotten it’s 40 degrees outside and is beginning to sweat.

“Dinner was exquisite, as always,” Will says. “Thank you.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it.” Hannibal sinks a little further into the steaming water, sighing. He even closes his eyes. 

“Are you relaxing?”

“Very much so.”

It feels strange to hear from Hannibal. “You don’t really vocalize your feelings, do you? Usually you’re just describing aesthetics. It’s never really about the effect of food or art or whatever on _you_ . . . ”

Hannibal answers without opening his eyes: “Perhaps I am too busy enjoying my feelings to announce them. You should try it.”

Will wants to believe that Hannibal both wants and intends to help him psychologically, but he knows that will never be the case unless Hannibal’s interests happen to align with his. It always guts Will a little to remember that. “It’s a nice idea, but mostly I just feel dread. I don’t particularly enjoy wallowing in that.”

“Which is why I hope you will be able to relax while we’re here.” Hannibal’s proximity to the water has left the ends of his hair wet, and the jet over his shoulder keeps creating little waves against his clavicle.

“Just curious - exactly which school of therapy prescribes lust and gluttony to achieve enlightenment?” 

“Hedonism, according to you.”

“Not Maslow's hierarchy of needs?”

“That is also applicable,” Hannibal admits. He finally opens his eyes and slides his gaze over to Will. “Although there is debate on the ranking of sex. Not everyone agrees it is physiological.”

“It isn’t. It is possible to life a full life without it.”

“You think so?”

“You _don’t_?”

Hannibal shrugs a surge into the water and sits up straighter. “I’m ambivalent.”

Will laughs. “You haven’t seemed particularly ambivalent lately.” He lets his hand float with the current over to Hannibal and settle on his thigh. Hannibal doesn’t react, just stares unseeingly ahead through the steam so Will moves his hand farther up and over and discovers Hannibal’s half-hard cock. “Case in point.”

Hannibal opens his mouth and seems about to say something, turns toward Will and gives up whatever quip he’d composed and kisses him instead. Hannibal doesn’t touch Will otherwise, just hovers his lips across Will’s so softly and carefully it makes Will shiver in spite of how warm he is. Will tries to deepen the kiss but Hannibal draws back and keeps it vague and perfectly tantalizing. Sexy is too mundane a word for Hannibal - erotic is closer. Devastating.

Will has to pull back. “What am I to you?”

“Many things. A lens through which I can better see the world. And a mirror.”

*

When Will wakes up on the third day he’s beginning to feel at home. He stretches in his bed and enjoys the lingering heaviness to his limbs for long minutes before the smell of coffee persuades him to sit up. He brushes his teeth and struggles to piece together the fragments of a dream - something about an enormous, dark house and frustration with his inability to navigate it. Dogs forgotten in rooms he could no longer locate and an irritating worry for them that still simmers in the back of his mind.

Breakfast is a rainbow of roasted beets, potatoes, and carrots. They eat in relative silence. The sight of Hannibal doesn’t jolt Will with fear or desire like it sometimes does. There’s a weird little cowlick in Hannibal’s hair that he has failed to tame, today. 

What had begun as flurries has escalated to a blizzard by the time they finish breakfast. Hannibal pours them coffee and leads Will into a previously unexplored room off the kitchen that was probably labeled ‘breakfast nook’ or ‘sun room’ on the blueprints. Panel windows carry over from the kitchen and the room is awash in bright graying light. The room juts out over the cliff and makes Will feel he’s suspended in midair.

Hannibal leads Will to a pair of green leather lounge chairs. The trees seem even farther below them from this vantage point, a labyrinthine pine ocean that underscores their isolation in this place. The clouds are abstract streaks of muddy white.

Hannibal clears his throat and sets his mug down, watching the snowfall absently. “Did you have romantic relationships prior to your last sexual encounter?”

It takes a minute for that to sink in. “I haven’t even had my coffee yet, Hannibal.”

“Usually our discussions revolve around violence. I thought sex might be lighter topic of conversation.”

“Well you’re not wrong,” Will says. “You first. Although I’d prefer if you left Alana out of it.”

“I asked you first.”

“I know; I was there.”

Hannibal looks pleased. Despite the great lengths Hannibal takes to stay in control, he always seems delighted when Will is contrary. “I have had a variety of sexual partners, and some relationships. I find it difficult to label my sexuality because I feel indifferent toward most people regardless of gender.”

“Why do it if you’re indifferent?” Will asks. _Is it all just a game to you?_ he really wants to know.

“I have certainly had sex for strategic reasons - to manipulate or to gain power over somebody else. I’ve also experienced genuine attraction in relationships. But the main reason I continue to seek out sexual partners is because an interest in sex is a means of conformity. I surmise this is because sexual desire is easily recognizable. People can sometimes compose themselves well enough to succeed at lying or affecting emotions, but arousal is automatic and physiological. More difficult to disguise or to impersonate.”

“Are you saying I was obvious?”

Hannibal tilts his head. “You are harder to read than most people . . . ”

“Does that irritate you?” Will asks. 

Hannibal shakes his head. “Very seldom. If anything it’s intriguing.” His stare is, as always, unwavering.

Will holds his gaze and wonders, “Was there ever a time you didn’t want me?”

“Are you saying _I_ was obvious?”

“Oh, I would _never_,” Will says. “Well. Are you gonna ask about my sexual history?”

“Not if you truly do not wish to discuss it.”

Will scoffs. “Yeah, that would be a bridge too far in our otherwise professional relationship.”

Hannibal smirks almost imperceptibly. “So tell me.”

“If you don’t count the girl I held hands with in third grade, the first time was junior year of college. I had a classmate named Aina who sat next to me. We were both hiding out in the back of the room, and she was a bit of an introvert - not nearly as socially awkward as me, though. She asked me out and we dated for the rest of the semester. She was a senior, though, and she went to grad school out of state. It just kind of fizzled out after that.” It occurs to Will that he’s barely even thought about this since it happened.

“So you were a virgin, before Aina?”

The question makes Will squirm a little but he tries not to let it show. “I was; she wasn’t. The sex was fine. I mean, sometimes it was really nice. It wasn’t disastrous or anything.”

Hannibal takes a casual sip from his mug, which puts Will more at ease. “I see.”

“Then there was a woman I was interested in at the academy.”

“What about her interested you?” Hannibal is using his therapist voice.

“She made me laugh without making me feel like the butt of the joke. She was nice to me but not ingratiating. I thought she really did like me, too.”

“But she didn’t?”

“We dated - I guess you would call it dating - for a few weeks. But she wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“And you were?”

“I dunno. Not really. I’ve never really had a strong feeling about relationships one way or the other. It’s not that I don’t enjoy them - it’s more that I don’t know what I want from one. Sex is nice, but I’ve never found masturbation to be wanting. Anyway, the next time was the woman at the Halloween party.”

Hannibal is nonreactive, only watching him blankly, which annoys Will a little bit.

“So? Is that about what you had assumed?”

“I hadn’t considered it much, Will. It has no bearing on whatever our relationship is to be.”

Will keeps watching for cracks in Hannibal’s facade, but it seems firmly back in place. “And what do you foresee us being to each other, Hannibal?”

“As long as we do continue to be something to each other, the nature of the relationship doesn’t matter to me.”

It’s too smooth a line to go down well with Will. It feels off-puttingly Bundy-ish and makes him wary all over again. But the trick of endorphins and human connection engulfs all of that pretty quickly.

After their coffee is finished Will insists on washing the mugs. It’s their last day in the cabin, and they might as well start tidying now. Soft strains of music emanate from the living room and Will struggles to identify it. Just piano, Will thinks - just stabs of accented sound to carry the melody between the busy trickle of lesser notes. Will dries his hands on a dishtowel and joins Hannibal in the living room.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he says from the doorway. “Who wrote this piece? Beethoven?”

Hannibal shakes his head. 

“Schubert?”

“Schu_mann_. ‘Papillons’ .”

“Close enough.” Will thrusts his hands into his pockets and joins Hannibal at the empty fireplace. “Wasn’t Schumann the crazy one?”

Hannibal waits until the end of the phrase to answer him: “Possibly. It’s difficult to accurately diagnose historical figures.”

“He fucked up his fingers trying to strengthen them and become a better piano player, right?”

“So it is rumoured.” Hannibal listens to the music for a moment. “The piece is meant to depict a masquerade ball. Mistaken identities, deception, and machination.”

“Is that why you chose it?”

Hannibal doesn’t look at him. “This resort is named after a species of butterfly. It seemed appropriate.” 

That’s not quite an answer. “So you’re tying it all together. You do love a good performance, don’t you?”

Hannibal shrugs. “I don’t have to tell you what Shakespeare had to say about that.”

“ ‘One man in his time plays many parts’ . . . “

Hannibal does turn to him now, blank and shark-like in a way that belies the tender way he touches Will’s face. “What part are you playing now, Will?”

Will closes his eyes against the sensation of his fingertips. “Maybe I’m just becoming more of who I really am.”

Hannibal keeps stroking the contours of Will’s face and Will relaxes into it. The music is a rain of rushing bells that reverberates through everything it touches. Hannibal pushes Will’s hair back behind his ear, combing through it and grazing his nails over the nape of his neck. Hannibal’s gaze has gone dark and is pinning him there, and Will can’t tell if Hannibal scares him or compels him, anymore.

Hannibal’s face finally animates with a little smile. “There, in your eyes. It’s almost impossible to fake.”

Will places his hand in the center of Hannibal’s chest, then draws it down across the front of his pants and along the rigid outline of his cock. Then back up to Hannibal’s hip and under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. Hannibal’s pupils dilate too, and he tips Will’s chin up to kiss him, holding him gently in place as they explore each others mouths unhurriedly. Hannibal’s usually smooth cheek is verging on scruffy and the scrape of it is uncomfortable. Will loves it.

Fingers bury into Will’s hair and twist until he groans - Hannibal captures it with a kiss that deepens and thrums through his every nerve ending. Heat pools in Will’s groin and the piano seems to punctuate it.

“I don’t know why you turn me on so much,” he murmurs around Hannibal’s mouth.

“Because this is not about sex,” Hannibal says, though his tone of voice sounds like the definition of sex. “It’s about passion.”

“That’s very philosophical. Or it’s bullshit.”

Hannibal kisses the corner of Will’s mouth. “Not romantic?"

“Well, that’s a given.” Will nuzzles closer, biting at his bottom lip and his chin and his jawbone.

Hannibal pulls away, panting and disheveled. “Bedroom, now.”

It’s only after Will reaches the top of the stairs that he remembers there are two bedrooms. He’s hesitating by his door when Hannibal sidles up behind him and crowds Will against the it. He kisses the back and side of Will’s neck and grinds his hips against Will’s ass. Will reaches out blindly for doorknob and flings the door open. They stumble inside.

Will spins himself around dizzily and starts unbuttoning Hannibal’s shirt. The material is soft and flannel but Hannibal’s skin beneath it is even softer, hot and hard and intermittently coarse with hair. Hannibal lets a little groan slip out at the brush of Will’s fingers against his chest - he palms Will’s cock through his pants for a long delicious minute before pushing them down. Will bats Hannibal’s hand away so he can concentrate on Hannibal’s buttons.

“I know what you’re doing, Will. Don’t think that I don’t.” 

“I need you to shut up,” Will says, finally pushing Hannibal’s shirt off. “I don’t wanna play games right now.”

“All right.” Hannibal’s face is blank and Will studies it uselessly. He doesn’t know whether or not Hannibal is genuine, now, and he’s tired of trying to keep up.

“God, I am so fucking sick of you.” Will shucks his T-shirt off impatiently. “Just, take your pants off.”

Hannibal seems amused by Will’s ire, but he does as he’s told. He stands there looking unflappable and gorgeous, with a shard of silvery hair falling across his forehead. Just looking at him steadily.

“Fuck me again,” Will blurts out, wishing his brain would catch up with him. “I was too overwhelmed the first time to really appreciate it.”

“No.”

“Okay, let’s - wait, what?”

“No, Will,” Hannibal says, encroaching. “I want you to fuck me, this time. I want to see the beast.”

Will is caught between laughing and groaning. He licks his lips. “I’m not Randall Tier.”

“No, you’re not; you are his killer. Remember?”

Will does. He remembers blood and righteous fury and how wanton it all felt, no matter what he told himself his ulterior motives were. Hannibal’s eyes light up when Will pulls him in for a kiss.

It’s all escalates dizzyingly from there. Hannibal slips away from Will to retrieve a travel sized tube of lube from his own room, which Will has all kinds of questions about. He pushes Will back until his legs hit the bed, pins him down against the blood-red quilt to kiss him thoroughly before rolling off and beginning to pry himself open. Will almost can’t touch him because he looks so terribly striking - seemingly entranced with the stretch of his fingers, his body spread out like an offering and all of it for Will. He has scars that Will hadn’t noticed before - _From his victims,_ he guesses, and the reminder of Hannibal’s deadliness sends a hot shiver up his spine. Will trails a hand down Hannibal’s chest to grip his neglected cock and it twitches eagerly into the attention. Will wants so badly to maintain power over him. 

He leans over Hannibal. “Look at me.”

Hannibal’s eyes slide open. 

“Hands and knees.”

Hannibal’s teeth flash a little and he obeys. Will kneels behind him, slicks his cock with more lube and pushes just the head inside. It’s breathtakingly hot and tight and he fills his palms with Hannibal’s tensed thighs and appetizingly upturned ass and pushes the rest of the way in, slowly, hearing Hannibal groan and watching him fist the sheets.

“Good, isn’t it?” Hannibal asks breathlessly.

“Yes,” Will says. “God, yes . . . ”

Hannibal’s head hangs between his shoulders and he mutters, “Perfect,” with Will’s next thrust. Will grips his hips harder. Being in control like this is a heady psychological high that feels as good as the physical pleasure does. Hannibal doesn’t say much, but he does breathe heavily and start bucking back into Will’s thrusts.

Will pushes Hannibal’s shoulders down until his upper body is flat against the mattress. It forces Hannibal to turn his face against it - hair disheveled and sticking to his cheek, eyes scrunched close and looking utterly debauched. Will lets his hands close around Hannibal’s throat and squeezes as he thrusts again, watches Hannibal’s mouth fall open and relishes his gasping when Will finally releases his windpipe.

“Oh, you really like this, don’t you?”

Hannibal just groans and nods.

Will stops moving, lets his fingernails bite into Hannibal’s hips.

“Yes.”

Will starts fucking him again, slowly, drawing himself almost out before plunging back in again. “This?”

Hannibal tries to push back into it but the angle he’s at is working against him. “Harder.”

“Oh Hannibal, I’m disappointed in you. That’s just not very convincing . . . ”

Hannibal half laughs, half growls into the sheets. He twists his neck around awkwardly to glare at him. “Please, fuck me harder. Will.” He licks his lips.

Will can’t say no to that. They keep inching closer to the headboard until Hannibal has to throw his forearm against it to brace himself. Hannibal’s back muscles are working sinuously beneath his skin, tendons in his arms straining and Will can feel Hannibal’s thigh tensing with effort against Will’s. Will reaches around to fist Hannibal’s cock but finds that Hannibal is already doing it himself and the knowledge of Hannibal being this turned on propels Will swiftly toward climax. He curls himself over Hannibal’s body to keep himself in deep and to bite the back of Hannibal’s neck, smell his hair and sweat and feel his labored breathing up close. Hannibal shudders and his body contracts wildly around Will’s cock, and Will comes soon after him.

The position isn’t ideal beyond the throes of passion so Will extracts himself. Hannibal turns over, shiny-faced and panting at the ceiling while Will sits on the edge of the bead with his head hanging down. The mattress shifts when Hannibal gets up and Will hears him turn on the shower. Will grabs a nearby shirt - hopefully his own - to clean himself off and lays back on the bed in a daze, listening to the rush of water and loving the way it reverberates through his body like a second orgasm.

Hannibal says something about lunch to Will while he’s dozing and Will thinks he responds in the affirmative. The rest of the day is languid. Will showers too. Hannibal makes a somewhat random lunch with their remaining supplies but of course makes it taste incredible. Packing feels hypnotic, like Will is just on autopilot now, and they get on the road well before sundown. 

Behind them the cabin looms, dark now up on its cliffside and looking more accessible than it really is. Forest and nightfall close in around them and Will falls asleep to Hannibal’s music selection.

*

Will gets back into the swing of things eventually. He talks to Jack on the phone, is texted crime scene photos and tries to glean from them what he can without being physically present. He doesn’t see Hannibal for two weeks, having to cancel a session because of a snowstorm. Days later, the remote roads leading out to Will’s house still haven’t been ploughed. It’s because of this that the headlights coming down his driveway at dusk make him immediately suspicious. He herds the dogs into a back room and waits for the inevitable knock on his front door.

When Will opens the door, Hannibal is standing in the snow on Will’s porch, wrapped up snugly in a wool coat and scarlet scarf. The landscape behind him is blue with twilight, but Hannibal is spotlit by the light streaming out of the house.

“Why are you here?” Will asks.

Hannibal pushes his way inside, pulls Will to him with one sure arm around his waist and kisses him. He tastes like mint. “Can’t I make a social call?”

Will eyes him. “No. Why are you here?”

Something looks different about Hannibal, feels different. It’s hard to explain how Will knows it, but he’s sure that Hannibal’s guard is finally down. The way he’s looking at Will . . . trust, and undisguised heat. Now Will can finally exact his revenge on this horrible man, someone who has betrayed him in every possible way, a destroyer of lives. The problem is that Will doesn’t want to betray him back anymore.

Hannibal tilts his head, just looking him. “What do you think about Italy, Will?” he evades.

“I don’t; I’ve never been. Why?”

Hannibal smiles. “I brought wine,” he says, stroking the small of Will’s back now. Will doesn’t even care that he’s letting himself be played by Hannibal, too.

“Come in.”

*


End file.
